


Lost Without You

by Marbled Wings (LynxRyder)



Series: a starving heart and a smile that makes it race [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's changing attitude to heaven, Crowley's constant love for Aziraphale, Established Relationship, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Summons from Heaven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 05:26:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20718833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynxRyder/pseuds/Marbled%20Wings
Summary: It is six years before the Antichrist will burst onto the scene and Crowley, blissfully ignorant of this, is enjoying all the time with Aziraphale he can get, time that is abruptly brought to an end when Aziraphale receives a summons from Heaven.





	Lost Without You

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Freya Ridings' beautiful song "Lost Without You"

_2001_

For the past forty two minutes, from the very moment Aziraphale had spotted him from the bookshop window and waved, Crowley has been spectacularly, embarrassingly, overwhelmingly happy. It takes a lot of effort to tamp it down to an acceptable level of relaxed contentment but he’s confident that he’s pulling it off. He’s doing the best he can, at any rate, seeing as he’s far past the point of trying to deny to himself what the mere sight of Aziraphale does to him. They’ve been spending more time together lately than they ever have before. Crowley has been pushing his luck, turning up at the bookshop every few weeks with tickets to the opera, suggesting exhibitions, finding new restaurants, and Aziraphale has accepted each invitation without so much as a hint that he is finding Crowley’s company the least bit stifling. It is, Crowley thinks, nothing short of a miracle and one he would be quite unable to perform himself.

At that moment, Crowley is trying not to stare but really, Aziraphale makes it extraordinarily difficult. The way he’s tucking his napkin into his collar, the delight in his eyes at the choices on the menu, the smile that reaches across the table and squeezes Crowley’s heart pain-tight. Of course Aziraphale is smiling, they’re having afternoon tea, his favourite not quite meal of the day. It’s nothing to do with his present company, Crowley forcefully reminds himself.

‘Thank you for coming, my dear,’ Aziraphale says then, ‘I’m so glad you suggested it.’

Crowley keeps his expression rigidly neutral. He thinks of giving a presentation in Hell, Hastur’s face, the buzzing of Beelzebub’s flies, anything but the surging hope that has burst into bloom at Aziraphale’s words. Then he remembers why he made the suggestion in the first place, Aziraphale had called him, said there was a matter they needed to discuss. They could have done it on the phone right then and there but Crowley had immediately seized on the opportunity to draw a two minute interaction into at least a couple of hours.

‘You said you had something to tell me.’ Crowley gestures around at the dining room. ‘This seemed as good a place as any for a business meeting.’

‘Business,’ echoes Aziraphale, ‘Yes, of course.’

There is a pause as a three tiered contraption loaded with cakes arrives at the table. Despite Aziraphale’s effervescent glee, it is placed nearest to Crowley who does not so much as glance at it. There is some fussing over tea and then they are alone again.

‘So?’ Crowley prompts, eager to get the business portion of their afternoon out of the way sooner rather than later. Aziraphale’s gaze slides from the cakes back to him with the utmost reluctant.

‘Ah,’ he says, ‘Well, yes, I suppose I might as well get right to it.’

Two faint spots of pink have risen high on his cheeks. He takes a deep breath.

‘My presence is required in Heaven.’

Crowley experiences a strange sensation, an instantaneous separation of his body and his mind as if something essential is being sliced away from him. It’s like discorporation but worse because he does not disappear. He goes on sitting opposite Aziraphale who does not take his words back or offer anything resembling an explanation.

‘You what?’

Aziraphale tries to smile but it slides off his face.

‘I got a summons. They just want my report face to face this time, that’s all. Completely routine.’

Routine. The word rolls around Crowley’s skull like a ball bearing. Not once, in all the time they have been working together and eating together and sharing smiles together has Aziraphale ever had to return to Heaven to give his report in person. Crowley’s relatively frequent trips to Hell are common enough to occur without either of them thinking anything of it but Aziraphale is rarely even acknowledged by Heaven much less told to go up there. The last time must have been the opening of the bookshop, the promotion. Crowley had stopped that, maybe he can stop this too.

‘Angel…’

‘There’s nothing for it,’ said Aziraphale, speaking at the exact same time, ‘I have to go, can’t very well say no to a request from Gabriel himself. Oh, sorry, what were you going to say?’

Crowley shakes his head, he cannot remember. There’s something wrong with his chest. He cannot remember how to breathe in and out. His mind is nothing but white noise.

A tense silence settles over the table. Aziraphale lifts his cup and sips his tea, carefully avoiding Crowley’s eyes. The cakes on their delicate china plates remain untouched. They are not being entirely ignored, from Aziraphale’s frequent glances it’s clear that the scones will be the first thing to go, but to reach them he will have to risk leaning into Crowley’s space and evidently he cannot bring himself to do this yet, not with Crowley’s displeasure so evident. Aziraphale does not wish to be snapped at, Satan forbid they cause a scene. Crowley feels a reckless sort of hysteria rising up in him. He closes his eyes behind his glasses, allows himself to indulge in the ridiculous fantasy that Aziraphale would find it harder to leave if Crowley had chosen a different look, a different persona, a different body for the day. He gives up imagining what Aziraphale might have preferred with a barely restrained sigh. The answer, he fears, is depressingly simple. Not him.

Aziraphale is actually licking his lips now, his expression one of desperate longing poorly overlaid with the kind of polite disinterest that seems so popular in this establishment. After enduring a few more miserable minutes of Aziraphale’s silent pining, Crowley finally caves in and pushes the tower of cakes towards him, hoping that for a fleeting second at least his longing might accidentally transfer itself onto him. Crowley would take that, he’s been living off much less for so long now.

‘Oh my!’ says Aziraphale, ‘Don’t they look wonderful!’

He breaks off to reward Crowley with the softest, sweetest smile in all Creation. Crowley’s own jaw is locked tight and before he can do anything about that Aziraphale’s attention has returned to his preferred source of pleasure. Crowley’s hand twitches. He is almost overwhelmed by the desire to topple the entire table, anything to bring Aziraphale’s attention back, even if it was in anger, especially anger. Something close to passion, something that would leave a mark.

‘You’re just going to go then?’

Aziraphale, who is busy with cream and jam, does not even look up.

‘Sorry, my dear? What was that?’

The casual endearment causes a sharp pain to flare in Crowley’s chest. His hand tightens on his thigh. For a moment he considers abandoning his questions, trying to enjoy lunch or whatever meal this is supposed to be, and then leave. Aziraphale has been summoned back to Heaven and Crowley just has to accept it, move on, work alone until he comes back. Because he will come back. He has to. Crowley fidgets restlessly in his chair, unable to get comfortable.

‘You must try one of these, Crowley dear. Excuse my fingers.’

Aziraphale places an éclair on a plate and holds it out to him. Crowley takes it. He had no intention of eating anything and does not particularly wish to now, but Aziraphale has touched this pastry and this is as close as he’s ever going to get to tasting him. Crowley glares down at the damn thing. He is pathetic. This whole situation is completely and utterly, irredeemably pathetic. Feeling irritated by everything and everyone, Crowley leans back until his chair is balanced on two legs, the old mahogany creaking in protest. The tree it came from probably cost more in blood than money. Not that anyone in this room gives a shit. Too content with their long wine list, their insulating wealth and their self-importance to care that they and their ancestors have bankrolled the worst atrocities known to man. The anger is distracting him so Crowley focuses on it, fanning the flames, more than happy to give these old bastards what they have coming to them. Across the table Aziraphale carefully dabs at his lips with the corner of his napkin, watching him.

‘Is something the matter?’ he asks.

He is reminding Crowley to pretend that everything is fine, that’s what Crowley is supposed to do, he has rehearsed the same old lines so many times. Bringing his chair back down to meet the wood floor, Crowley bears his teeth. He can’t do it this time, he just can’t. 

‘Oh yes, everything’s just peachy, angel. You’ve just told me you’re disappearing back off to Heaven for God only knows how long but that’s fine, don’t mind me. Why should I care? Makes my job a damn sight easier, not having you around to screw up my plans.’

Aziraphale’s lip twitches minutely.

‘Plans?’ he asks with raised eyebrows.

‘Yes, plans. I have plans. Bloody evil ones they are too. Not that it’s any of your business what I get up to. I’m sure humanity will be just fine without you.’ 

‘I have faith that they will not go too far astray in my absence, regardless of your plans.’

‘Insulting,’ says Crowley, crossing his arms.

‘What I mean is,’ Aziraphale amends, ‘I’m sure Heaven will not require my presence for long. It’s just a formality. Are your plans so very fiendish that they could cause irreparable damage in such a short time?’

‘Might be,’ says Crowley, ‘I have orders too, you know.’

‘I am well aware.’

Another silence falls. Aziraphale busies himself with refilling his cup and Crowley finds himself drawn into the intricate ritual of it all, the way he checks the pot before he pours, swirling it three times, the precise way he adds just the right amount of milk, the clink of the teaspoon against china as he mixes, the tea always the exact same shade of brown when he’s finished. He never gets it wrong, never accidentally forgets a step. Crowley wonders whether he uses a miracle to ensure the perfect drinking temperature. He wouldn’t put it past him. Blessing Heaven, Crowley wishes he could just say it, wishes he could push those impossible words from where they have lodged themselves in his throat. What would Aziraphale do? What would he say? Would he pretend to be shocked? Surely he must know something of how Crowley is feeling. Isn’t there any part of him that would feel the same if Crowley had announced that he would be returning to Hell indefinitely? Maybe not. In a world chock full of good restaurants and fine wine and little cakes dusted with icing sugar, maybe Aziraphale would not miss him at all.

‘Crowley…’

Crowley realises that he has been staring straight at Aziraphale. Thank fuck for dark glasses.

‘What?’

He meant to snap, to break the stupid, self-inflicted tension, but the word has no sting at all. Aziraphale frowns a little, taps his teaspoon on his cup making the china ring before putting it down.

‘Obviously you wouldn’t be concerned,’ he says, his voice suddenly business-like, ‘But I think it only fair to assure you that I will be back just as soon as possible. So any plans you have, well, I shall see to it that they are appropriately thwarted.’

‘Right,’ says Crowley, ‘Fine.’

He is not pacified. He wants a date, a time, an exact set of coordinates. He does not want Aziraphale to go. He does not trust Heaven to give him back. He fights against the urge to simply get up and walk away. It’s either that or pick a fight and he does not want to do that either. What if it’s the last time they ever see each other? Crowley is master of himself enough to know he cannot live with false words of anger as the last thing the angel hears from him.

‘I don’t want to go, you know.’

Aziraphale is looking down, he could be talking to his rather full stomach or to the pocket watch he checks to give himself an excuse not to raise his eyes. Crowley says nothing. He does not know what to say.

‘Just one of those silly things,’ Aziraphale continues, ‘Part of the job. Not as if I have any reason to want to go up there, not when everything I like is…here.’

His gaze flickers towards Crowley and then away so quickly that Crowley might have imagined it. Something rises up in him then, a fierce protective force that tastes like red wine shared at midnight, sounds like delighted laughter at a story shared, looks like eyes the colour of every ocean at every depth in every untouched corner of the world. Several things fall into place for Crowley at the same time, weighty truths that pull at his soul. Aziraphale does not want to return to Heaven. He has no idea how long he will be gone, possibly he has not mustered the courage to ask. And he is afraid. He is afraid of the same thing Crowley has been afraid of since Aziraphale dropped his little bombshell. He is afraid that he won’t come home.

‘Well, like you said,’ Crowley says, abruptly affecting a casualness he has not felt around Aziraphale for a couple of thousand years, ‘Just a formality. Over before you know it. Won’t have time to miss...well, anything.’

Aziraphale nods. Any pleasure he has derived from the previous hour has been wiped from his face.

‘I expect I’ll be back by next week,’ he says in a small voice, almost entirely devoid of hope, ‘Perhaps you’d like to come by the bookshop or…?’

‘Yeah,’ says Crowley, at once, ‘Expect you’ll need a stiff drink after dealing with that lot.’

Aziraphale manages a tight smile.

‘Next week then,’ he says, as if Heaven will abide by a plan made with a sworn enemy. Crowley has to admit though, it feels good. At the very least he has confirmation that Aziraphale will do what he can to return. 

Crowley drives them to the office. Aziraphale sits in the passenger seat for a long time after the engine has died, enduring Queen with atypical grace. As the seconds turn into minutes and Aziraphale stays where he is, Crowley wonders whether he should just say it. He is fairly sure that if he turned off the radio, his thoughts would fill the silence without him having to say a word.

_Don’t go angel. Please don’t go._

Crowley is stretching out a hand to turn the music off when Aziraphale gives a sort of shudder, coming back to himself from wherever he was lost in thought.

‘I’d better be off then,’ he says, briskly, ‘Thank you ever so much for lunch. See you next week?’

Crowley drops his hand, swallows. He can’t make himself turn to look at Aziraphale straight on, something he will sorely regret the moment the car door closes behind him, but before that he makes himself say, ‘Next week then. I’ll bring scotch.’

‘Jolly good,’ says Aziraphale, faintly, ‘Cheerio then.’

Crowley watches him cross the street. There’s a crushing pain inside him that increases with every step Aziraphale takes but still Crowley does not do anything to stop him from walking away. Aziraphale does not look back, not a glance. When he enters the building, right at the moment Aziraphale vanishes, Crowley’s pain breaks through and for the next three weeks, four days and twenty two hours the whole of London is plagued by an unexplainable, inescapable sense of utter despair.

_Present Day_

It is many years, one almost Apocalypse and a hundred crucial courageous steps later, and Crowley is experiencing a very familiar sense of absolute panic. He is standing in the bookshop, facing Aziraphale who is holding a pearly white envelope that shimmers as it catches the light. They both know where it has come from and they are both staring at it as if it contains a bomb rather than a piece of paper.

‘What could they want?’ Aziraphale asks, making no move to open it.

‘Nothing good,’ says Crowley. If it were up to him he would burn the thing unopened, consign it to history before it can contaminate any part of what they have now. Heaven and Hell have left them alone for almost two years. Not a long time in a celestial sense but long enough for weeks to go by without Crowley sparing either of them much thought. And now this.

‘I suppose I should open it.’ Aziraphale glances at Crowley as if seeking a second opinion. ‘It could be important.’

Crowley is pretty sure he could ignite the thing from where he’s standing. Tempting as it is, he has no intention of accidentally burning his angel. Aziraphale walks over to his desk, locating the ornate letter opener gifted to him by Oscar Wilde and detested by Crowley as a result. He’s tried to get rid of the thing three times. Each time it has reappeared on the desk and Aziraphale has subsequently insisted on reading The Picture of Dorian Gray aloud every night until Crowley gives in and apologises. Remembering this does not help calm Crowley’s explosive nerves as Aziraphale slices through the divine stationary. He has donned his completely unnecessary reading glasses to view the enclosed letter.

‘They want to see me,’ Aziraphale says, his voice very deliberately emotionless, ‘As soon as would be convenient.’

He reads this part in a voice that conjures up memories of Gabriel, a voice that hides a breakneck snap behind a humourless smile. Crowley tries to say something but every cutting remark he thinks of gets tangled in his throat, threatening to choke him. Aziraphale is reading the letter again, those ocean eyes well-practiced at distilling every bit of meaning from every word. Crowley balls his hands into fists. His terror is growing with every second that passes because he knows, he just knows that Aziraphale is going to do what they want of him.

‘Angel…’

Crowley is going to do it right this time. He cannot and would not force Aziraphale to do anything but he is not about to let Heaven reclaim him without a fight. Not this time. Not again.

‘Angel, please…’

His knee caps already ache with the knowledge that they are about to meet the floor. He is going to plead and beg and cry if he has to, he is going to tell Aziraphale he loves him a hundred thousand times and make his angel peel his arms from around him if he wants to leave, but before Crowley can do another thing Aziraphale is frowning and then, in one decisive movement, he has ripped the letter in two and thrown the pieces unceremoniously to the floor.

‘That’s what I think of that,’ he says, a little tremulous, a little triumphant, ‘Now, are we going to Tate Britain as planned or shall we…?’

Aziraphale breaks off with a little ‘oof’ of surprise as Crowley collides with him, hugging him as tightly as he possibly can.

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale chokes, ‘What are you…?’

Crowley kisses the words from him. He remembers the last time he felt this happy to be proved wrong and he distinctly remembers kissing being involved then too.

‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale tries again, ‘Is this about…?’ He gives the letter at their feet a contemptuous look. ‘You didn’t think I would go up there, did you?’

Crowley avoids answering the question by concentrating his attention on Aziraphale’s neck, right at the spot which makes him wriggle and blush. Crowley bites gently making Aziraphale moan, it would only take a few more minutes for Aziraphale to forget the letter entirely. If Crowley plays it right, it could be hours before he has to explain himself, incredibly pleasurable hours, and it’s tempting, very tempting.

‘Angel…’

His lips brush Aziraphale’s collarbone.

‘Yes, dearest.’

It is not a question but still Crowley draws back, forcing himself to meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

‘I love you.’

‘I know, darling.’

‘I’d be lost without you.’

Aziraphale is already clinging to him but his grip tightens, fierce resolve meeting the soft tenderness of his expression.

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Crowley nods, trying not to think of the two halves of an invitation and what the senders may do when it goes unanswered. The fear which he is able to deny for much longer periods now is back full force. Aziraphale who knows him so well, strokes his arms. 

‘You’re just going to say no?’ Crowley asks, not quite able to believe it.

Aziraphale smiles and it is the sunshine after a storm.

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I am saying no.’

‘You’re staying here?’

‘Yes.’

Crowley swallows. He needs to hear it again.

‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale says again patiently, ‘I intend to stay right here. Heaven be damned.’

The blasphemy sends a shiver down Crowley’s spine.

‘Say that again,’ he whispers, pressing in closer.

Aziraphale’s answering smile contains enough wickedness to undo Crowley completely.

‘Give me a reason.’

And Crowley, who considers this statement part challenge, part angelic temptation, needs no further prompting to do exactly that.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope to make this into a series of snapshots of Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship inspired by various songs. 
> 
> Let me know what you think and come say hi on tumblr @marbledwings


End file.
